Intricacies of Joan Watson
by heiots
Summary: Collection of short stories on the life of Joan Watson. May include delving into her head from time to time.
1. Reminiscing Kites

**Reminiscing Kites**

_"They are the intangible elements that unravel memories  
buried deep beneath the everyday thoughts of life."**  
**_

Scattered leaves scrape against the ground before being swept up by the wind, spiralling in the evening's diminishing light. The scent of forgotten memories lingers in the autumn air, what's left of the day's warmth quickly fading. A tan squirrel scurries up the thick trunk of a red maple tree, bushy tail twitching in rapid motions before disappearing into the leafy canopy overhead.

The unspoken is expelled in a sigh that escapes the world's notice. She shifts on the park bench, causing the papery contents in the bag to rustle beneath her hands. An elderly couple strolling down the pavement gaze at her in curiosity, and they exchange the kind of smiles that strangers passing each other by in life do.

Five minutes. She'll give it another five minutes.

A little child's laughter rides on the wind. On the patch of green littered with fallen leaves, a girl clutches a spool of string, as a man, presumably her father, backs away with a kite of bright, brilliant colours. The child bounces in excitement, but he does not hurry with his task. She laughs in anticipation, and he grins, both oblivious to prying eyes.

He waits for the perfect moment, and when it arrives, he lets go.

The kite soars.

_Peals of giggles break loose. The nylon string is taut against her finger, the kite tugging, fighting to break free to wander its own way. She is not foreign to kite-flying. There is one at home that her brother lets her use on occasion if she promises to do his chores for him, but this, this one is different. This one is hers to keep. It is not the prettiest, not like the ones her classmates have. It is nothing more than a plastic bag, sticks stuck together with tape, and a paper tail at the end, but it is beautiful because he made it._

_For her._

_She twists around to look at him, to thank him, and the words dissipate in her mouth._

_Something feels wrong. Though why exactly, she can't pinpoint._

"_Do you have to go?"_

_He crouches down beside her. There is dirt smudged on his face. "I've got to work, remember?" His lips curve, but his voice sounds all funny. He stands, his hand resting heavy on her head for a second._

_Eyes follow his figure. He stops by the bench her mother occupies, and they talk for a long time. There is a lot of gesturing. Shaking of head. Slumped shoulders. She watches them, a knot in her chest, too far away to hear the words spoken. When they both turn to look in her direction, she tilts her head up to the darkening sky, only to realize that the kite is nowhere to be found. The string lies slack in her hands._

_A quick search reveals the kite lying abandoned on the ground, its journey ended before it had even barely begun._

"_Joan!"_

_She grabs the kite and races back. He is already gone. She wants to ask where he went and when he will visit again, but the sight of her mother's reddened eyes stop the questions from spilling forth. The ride home is quiet. In her room, she hunts for a suitable hiding place where Oren wouldn't be able to get to and finally stashes the kite inside her closet, behind piles of clothes, where it waits for the next opportunity to be out again in the open._

"Watson!" He calls as the door slams shut behind her. He strides into view and takes a quick moment to survey her. "You've been to the park, I see. And you were?"

She halts on the first step of the stairway, suddenly flooded with the weariness of one who has been lugging around a bag filled with boulders instead of a childhood toy constructed of mere plastic and sticks.

She meets his eyes, and after a second, she gives him the faintest of smiles. "Waiting."


	2. Sedimentary Deposits

**Sedimentary Deposits **

There's one thing Moriarty isn't entirely wrong about. Not that she would admit it to anyone. She knows within her once lurked a craving that sought reassurance, a good word. It was a temporary antidote to the sickness known as self-doubt, a disease that had plagued her for as long as she remembers. It was a constant niggling voice that fed the discontentment in her life. Sometimes it comes back to haunt her. Nobody is as harsh a critic as she is to herself. After years of collecting compliments, she learned to expect them, to depend on them to nourish her self-esteem. Then the accident happened, and in place of compliments and envious looks, there were piteous gazes and whispered remarks.

It always starts out innocent. Unintentional, like any addiction. No one ever expects to be entrenched as deeply as they eventually become. The more you feed those urges, the more they demand. Who would've guessed she would become a victim of such a common, vicious cycle?

Brilliant, collected, talented Joan. No one suspected that of her for a single reason.

She's good at pretending. Skilled almost to a fault. She knows the best way to fend off bullies is to pretend they don't affect you, so she learned to sit still, feigning deafness to the taunts that mocked the distinctive slant of her eyes and mismatched set of parents.

One of her best shows happened on the way home from school, when a familiar red beanie with white stripes caught her attention. She recognized it at first glance because she'd chosen the yarn and spent a whole month crocheting the beanie. Her heart leaped, his name on the verge of tumbling from her lips when a sudden deprecating comment mercilessly shredded the intention. Homeless people are only wasting her parents' money, the classmate remarked in disdain. The laughter that followed paralyzed her. Head spinning, she managed a weak grin, and before the man with the red beanie could lift his head, before he got the chance to look at the sorry excuse passing for his flesh and blood, before she got to see the light in his eyes fade at her denial of any connection with him, she conjured up a reason to leave and fled in the opposite direction.

She hadn't known relief and shame could exist in the same internal space, and in that instance, she became painfully aware she was horribly ashamed of her homeless, wandering father. It birthed forth another kind of shame altogether, and it was an immovable stone wedged in her heart.

She got together with the same classmates the next day, laughed with them, and carried on with the same old curriculum. The tears shed bitterly the night before was a non-existent nightmare that should best be forgotten. She wouldn't admit that it bothered her, or that it bothered her that it bothered her, but it didn't matter because she was good at pretending, talented in building walls around things that mattered most and hiding in the safe zone. That's how she's learned to live.


End file.
